


rejoicing in justice alone

by indigostohelit



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Bargaining, Deal with a Devil, M/M, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 07:14:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3927727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigostohelit/pseuds/indigostohelit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt Murdock meets a stranger at a crossroads on a hot summer night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	rejoicing in justice alone

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think I've ever reflexively crossed myself while writing a fanfiction before.

You learn to stop loving the summer nights.  
  
You're quick-twitching, lightning-veined, moving from rooftop to rooftop like there's springs in your heels. (You've heard of another man, another legend with something like that in his name—but that's a different city, a different story, and you're not the villain of this one, you're not, you're not.)  
  
You learn to stop loving the summer nights, because they're the buzzcrackle of light, they're electric and brilliant and strung across the rivershore like Heaven itself has built its kingdom on this island; they're places where the sun has gone down but hasn't quite died, where the light is vanished but the heat remains. They're places where the city is full up with warmth, and laughter, and love, love, love—  
  
But when it's cold there's fewer men in alleys; when it's cold there are fewer muggings, fewer gunshots. When it's cold the city is quiet. You can go for hours without moving from your post, curled up on a fire escape, huffing wet warm steam onto your fingers.  
  
You learn to stop loving the summer nights. After a while.  
  
This night is a warm night, and there's a man with a knife. Later, there's a man without a knife. You throw the knife into a corner – you've got no use for it – and throw the man into another, unconscious and bound. You'll take him to the police station later, before he wakes up. For now, the city's wide, there's places to be—  
  
There's someone standing behind you.  
  
His breathing's slow, regular; his heartbeat's a dull, steady thump. You didn't hear him come into the alley. You must've been distracted by the man with the knife.  
  
He says, "Hello."  
  
You're already in motion.  
  
First to him—kick to kneecaps, again to solar plexus, chop to throat—then fire escape, brick, up, away. One rooftop, another; you decide to make your way down after those two, use a drainpipe to guide your way along the brick to the ground.  
  
He's there.  
  
There's breathing, heavy. His heart is hammering in his chest. He says, “Don't run away. Please—I just want to talk to you.”  
  
You say, "Who are you."  
  
He says, "A friend. I swear."  
  
Boots scrape on cement; he's fairly light, tall. He's gotten his breath back quicker than you'd expected. “A friend,” he says again. “I promise.”  
  
"I don't have friends I've never met before," you say.  
  
"Then I'm your first," he says. "Really, I'm not here to hurt you. I'm just here to talk."  
  
He's close enough to touch you, now. You take a step back. "So talk.”  
  
He says, “I'm a businessman. I have a proposition for you. No,” he must have seen you tense, “no, I know you've had dealings with certain businessmen. I'm not with them. I'm not," and the shape of his vowels changes, a smile. "I'm not like them. I hope so, anyway. I've been operating in Hell's Kitchen for years. I don't have grandiose dreams for it. I'm certainly not running an organized crime ring.”  
  
“I'm glad to hear it,” you say, dry.  
  
“I'm glad you're glad,” he says. “Maybe you're glad enough that you won't try to break my knees again?” There's a laugh in his voice.  
  
“We'll see,” you say.  
  
"All right," he says, "fair enough. I did startle you.” He pauses; you can feel him looking at you. “It's a nice night – I'd hate to spend it hiding in an alley. How about we walk and talk?”  
  
You take alleys, side streets, keep out of sight as much as you can. Your new friend moves quick; no matter how much you hasten the pace, he never seems winded. Your mind flickers to how quickly he made it from one alley to another—he certainly didn't follow you over the rooftops. He must be faster than you. How much faster, you don't know.  
  
“How did you know where to find me,” you say.  
  
He snorts a little laugh. “Who says I did? For all you know I've been standing around in likely alleyways for the last three months.”  
  
“Then you wanted to find me very badly.”  
  
“Badly enough,” he admits. “I admire your work. I think you—” He pauses, sighs. “I like your philosophy. The hands-on attitude of it all. Doing what you believe to be right in a meaningful way. You're the kind of person I'd like to know better.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because you seem like a good connection? Because I might want to work with you in the future? Because I'd like to get to know you better, I suppose,” and there's a little laugh, warm and self-deprecating. "Because I  _like_  you. Who doesn't like you, at this point? You're doing good. Everyone wants to be friends someone who's doing good.”  
  
You've reached the river; you can hear it lapping against the sand. There's a strip along the shore where two people can walk together, and you turn onto it. “So you want to make a business connection.”  
  
“Sure, if you want to ignore all those nice compliments I just paid you,” he says. “A business connection.”  
  
The night is warm; next to the water, the air is humid. You can hear cars rushing past on the highway. Somewhere behind them, someone is probably screaming.  
  
“So what do you want from me,” you say.  
  
“Only a small thing,” he says. "Nothing that'll cost you anything. In the future, maybe, we can figure out something more. Right now, though, my priority is to find out if we have interests in common. To see if I can do anything for  _you._ ”  
  
“Do anything for me,” you say.  
  
“I want,” the man says, “to make a deal.”  
  
You're silent.  
  
“The deal is this,” the man says. “I have certain—skills. They allow me to place Hell's Kitchen under a certain level of protection.”  
  
Your shoulders stiffen. “You are a mob boss.”  
  
“No!” he says. “No, certainly not. Not that sort of protection. Not the kind where I keep every criminal away except those in my pocket.” He sniffs. “Under my protection there would be no crime at all. No muggers, no junkies. No hired thugs showing up to smash in the walls of good women.”  
  
“You can't promise that,” you say.  
  
“I assure you,” he says, “I can.”  
  
“How,” you say. “You have a private army? You have senators in your pocket? You station thugs on every street corner?”  
  
The man pauses for a long few moments. “I suppose you saw a lot of—unusual things, when the aliens came out of the sky,” he says, eventually.  
  
You let the  _saw_  slide. “Yes,” you say. “Yes, I did.”  
  
“All right,” says the man. “Then think of me as— _unusual_  protection. And trust me, I will be just as effective as the aliens were.”  
  
“And what would you ask in return,” you say, sharp and sarcastic. “Only a few million dollars? Only a seat on the city council? Only a deal for your friends to have the ear of the New York Senate—”  
  
“Nothing so petty,” he says, insulted. “Nothing like that at all. More of—a contract. A symbolic bargain. I would agree to put Hell's Kitchen under my protection, and in return you would agree to—” He hums, low.  
  
“Agree to?” you say.  
  
“Well,” he says, “as a symbol, you understand—to give it to me, I suppose. To pass it formally from your ownership to mine. So that my protection can be real and complete.”  
  
“I don't own this city,” you say, genuinely surprised.  
  
A small snort of laughter from the man. “You'd be shocked how these things are figured.”  
  
“And this is part of your— _unusual_  protection? Owning the city?” You hear him clear his throat, hold your hand up. “As a symbol. You said that part”  
  
“It is,” he says. “Part of the rules—I didn't make them. You'd have to hand it over to me. And then, when I owned it, I'd be able to make it as safe as you wanted. No murders, no robberies, no junkies shooting up on street corners.”  
  
“I'd be out of a job,” you say.  
  
“Well, you'd think you'd  _want_  to be out of a job,” says the man, sounding mildly astonished. “It doesn't seem like the kind of job you'd like to do forever. It's not as if there's particularly good publicity—I still remember the newspapers from last year.” He pauses. “And—with all due respect—it's not as if you're a particularly effective solution to this problem.”  
  
You don't say anything.  
  
“Or,” says the man, and now he's a little closer to you on the path, as you walk. “Or, if you would like, there could be a place for you even after the city was under my protection. You could keep on doing what you do now. More effectively, even. We'd have to put it into the contract somehow—you'd work at my behest, I suppose, or you'd exchange ownership of yourself along with the city—but it could work.”  
  
“Go back to ownership of the city,” you say. “You said I'd be surprised at how it was figured. How is it figured? How can I own it? Doesn't it own itself?”  
  
There's a long pause from the man. Then he says, “Think of it as—oh, think of it like this, if it's easier.  _My beloved is mine, and I am his; he browses among the lilies._ ”  
  
You can't speak.  
  
“Or, ah, among the hot dog stands,” says the man. “As it were.”  
  
For some time, the only noise is your footsteps on the path along the river. The wind's cooled; the air is muggy, hot and still. You listen to the man's heartbeat, next to yours. It's steady and strong. Either he's telling the truth, or he believes himself so strongly that it doesn't matter.  
  
“How long have you been looking for me?” you say. “Standing around in alleyways.”  
  
“I've been looking for someone like you a long, long time,” he says. “Longer than you'd believe.”  
  
“And you want me to hand over this city to you? I don't even know your name.”  
  
“I usually make people guess, traditionally speaking,” he says, and laughs. “But it's not as if my name has very much to do with our deal, does it? Either I can keep this city safe or I can let it go. That's up to you.” He pauses. “And you do want to keep it safe. Don't you?”  
  
You do.  
  
“Good,” he says, though you've said nothing. “Good, I thought so.” There's a pause. “Shall we shake on it?”  
  
He must be holding his hand out. You extend yours—

—and draw it back. “What's in this for you?”  
  
“I'm sorry?” he says, sounding surprised.  
  
“Why do you want me to give you this city so badly?” you say. “Why did you wait in alleys for me for such a long time? Why do you want to make this deal so much?”  
  
“I never said I  _did_  waited in alleys for months,” he says, “for G—it was a joke. Are we going to shake on this or not?”  
  
“Why is this so important to you,” you say.  
  
“I'm a very nice person,” he says. “Now, if that's over with—”  
  
“What do you get out of owning the city,” you say. “What do you get out of having me give it to you.” He's trying to talk, trying to keep avoiding the question, and you run over him— “What is this deal all about. How does this  _unusual_  protection work—what does it mean, you own the city. What do you own.  _Who_  do you own—”  
  
“Just  _give to me_ ,” he snaps, and there is, of all things, a sudden wave of heat, and a smell like rotten eggs.  
  
You go very, very still.  
  
“What's going on,” you say.  
  
There's a little, uncertain laugh, a clearing of the throat. “You could make the city safe,” he says. “You could keep your friends safe. You could even bring back the ones you've—”, and then you're shoving him against the railing by the river.  
  
“Stop it,” you say. “Stop offering me what I want. It's not working any more. Tell me what your game is. Now.”  
  
“I told you,” the man says, quite calmly. “All I want is to have this city for my own. I don't think it's such a large thing to ask. I just want it to be mine, and the people in it to be mine, and to do what I want. All of them. Every last soul.”  
  
You take your hand away, step back. You can't breathe for a long second. “Who are you,” you say. “Really.”  
  
There's a long, quiet whoosh of laughter from the man. “I think you know who I am.”  
  
“You're offering me a contract,” you say. “You're offering me something you know I want. Something that seems to good to be true. In exchange for the city and—and myself.” It takes you a moment to get the next part out. “My soul.”  
  
"They used to call me," the man says pleasantly, "the Prosecutor. Which I suppose makes us natural enemies, Mr. Murdock. But I'd rather look past that, wouldn't you?"  
  
You say, “They used to call you the Devil.”  
  
“Ah,” he says. “Yes. Well, then, I suppose that makes us natural friends. Birds of a feather, as they say.”  
  
"No," you say. “No, we're not.”  
  
“Yes, we are,” he says. He sounds quite calm about it, as if it's the most everyday fact in the world. “Well, of course we're all birds of a feather, you half-formed apes and I. It's how you were made. We have almost everything in common. It's not just the name. Though I must admit—that did made me laugh.”  
  
“Get out of my city,” you say.  
  
He snorts. “I told you, Mr. Murdock. I've been in your city for some time. Long before you were born, in any case, and long before your unfortunate father was born.” A pause. “He says hello, by the way.”  
  
“No. No. He doesn't.”  
  
“You can keep contradicting me,” says the man patiently, “or we can have a real conversation. I did offer you a deal. You feel quite strongly about your city. I can help you make it better. You wanted it under a devil's protection. I can provide that.”  
  
“And all you need is for someone to hand it over,” you say. “Someone who loves it. Because you can't do that yourself.”  
  
The man hums. “Love,” he says, “yes, well, love was never my strong point. Not quite how  _I_  was made, I suppose. This city is,” a sigh, “well, I'm sure _you_  know. Difficult, I'd call it. Too wild for its own good. Keeping it safe and quiet and tame is a thankless task. It always manages to get itself into trouble again. Often the day after you've saved it.”  
  
“Like you'd know anything about saving,” you say, harsh.  
  
“I'm not saying I would,” he says. “I'm saying  _you_  might like to. Someday. Save the tired old place for good, instead of just until tomorrow. You might, say, like to be done fighting. You might like to be able to enjoy a nice summer night.”  
  
You're silent. He says, quiet and soft, “You're no soldier, Mr. Murdock, no matter what you've been told. Why haven't you gone home from the war?”  
  
For a long moment, there's no sound but the lap of the waves on the shore. Then a shift of pebbles; he's taken a step closer. “Come home, Matt,” he says, and there's real pain in his voice, real sweetness, a genuine and soft ache. “Let someone else take care of what troubles you. Let things be easy for once. Stop taking all of the hurt in this city onto your own shoulders. It's not your job. It's not your responsibility. You don't have to care about anyone's skin except yours, not if you don't want to.” Another step. “Come home.”  
  
He's so close you can feel the warmth from his body on your skin, even on this hot night. You grit your teeth, curl your fingers into fists.  
  
“I am home,” you say. “I'm home already. This city is mine. Hurt and all.”  
  
And then, without you hearing him take a step, he's suddenly very, very far away. “Well. I can't say I think that's the right answer.”  
  
“I've lived in this city my whole life,” you say. “You said when you came to me, the people in it think I'm a good man. You think I'll betray that to hand them over to someone like you?”  
  
He laughs, low and sharp. “Let me tell you, Mr. Murdock, because believe me, I know. The difference between the good people of the world and the bad ones is terribly, terribly thin.”  
  
There's a pause, and then he says, “You'd be surprised how quickly people change from heroes to villains.”  
  
“No,” you say. “No, I don't think I would be.”  
  
“The offer is still open,” says the Devil. “It's always open. It always was, you know. Long before you put on that mask.”  
  
You say, “Then you've gotten your answer already.”  
  
He says, "Yes. You chose. And you choose again. You keep choosing, every morning of your life. That's the idea, Mr. Murdock.” A little laugh. “And no matter how many times you tell me no, there  _will_  be some part of you that wishes you hadn't. That's the idea, too.”  
  
“You're a liar,” you say.  
  
“Yes,” he says. And then—a sudden shock, too quick for you to realize what's happening—his lips are on yours, his hand soft on your cheek.  
  
It's overwhelming, a sensory overload. For a long moment you're nothing but a whirlwind of sensation—his skin far too hot, the faint stubble on his chin running a very thin line between irritatingly painful and pleasantly so, his lips soft and his mouth tasting of salt and his tongue flickering over your mouth, a hint of sensation that has you pressing forward for more, Christ, and your hand is on his shoulder and the back of his neck and he's pressing you back against the railing and you want you want you've forgotten how to do anything but want, want,  _want_ —  
  
\--you'd go to your knees, you'd let him press you into the soft dirt of the riverbank and you'd mouth at his crotch until he unzipped himself and let you suck him down; you'd do it if he asked, because that's who you are, that's what you want, you want to be at his feet with your head bowed and his hands in your hair, panting for his cock, because it'd be easy. And that's all it would take, to have something sick and hateful and unhealthy and so, so simple, and God o God there is some part of you that doesn't know how to do anything except want this, keep wanting this.  
  
You can feel the railing against your back. His tongue's in your mouth, his body hot against yours.  
  
You want him so, so badly.  
  
You push him away.  
  
He goes easily. You suppose that's the idea, too.  
  
"It was nice to finally meet you in person, Matt," he says. "I'll see you soon." And then there's the sound of his boots on the path, receding into the distance.  
  
Night rolls away from the city like a blanket.  
  
The heat's rising; you can feel the sun when it sprawls across your feet like a dog, all sweat. Your palms are stinging from the antiseptic you've put on. They must be scraped red and raw.  
  
It's too late in the day for there to be any hope of sleep before you go to work. You lie down in your bed anyway, let the sheets stick to your skin. Maybe if you lie here long enough, day will turn into night again. Maybe the world will grow cold, or at least cooler; maybe the leaves will fall from the trees, the green from the grass. Maybe the city will grow quiet. Maybe, at long, long last, it'll sleep.  
  
And then wake up in the morning.


End file.
